Rosemary and Rue
by Valantha
Summary: Rachel stood outside Mr. Schulte's Photography Studio, a crocheted blanket clutched to her chest. It was just a blanket. It didn't have to mean anything. Set between seasons 1 and 2.
1. The Blanket

- Author's Note: Title alludes to the symbolism of those two herbs: remembrance and regret.

Trigger warning: POV mental fragility

* * *

Rachel stood outside Mr. Schulte's Photography Studio, a crocheted blanket clutched to her chest.

Mr. Schulte had taken her senior photos. He was dead now. Miles had rented this room. Space inside the village walls was scarce.

Rachel tried to convince herself to knock. It was stupid. She turned back down the hallway. She made it five steps before turning around again.

It was just a blanket. It didn't have to mean anything.

She rapped on the door, clutching the autumn-colored blanket harder.

No sounds came from the room. From his room.

Rachel felt like crying. She felt like crying. She, who had spent so many years with torture and uncertainty hanging over her, without cracking. Now, she was broken. She was a shattered coffee mug super-glued together – mostly. Missing pieces, pieces put back in wrong, sharp edges, gaps, a broken handle. Should still be usable, serviceable, functional.

The door squeaked open. Miles stood there, his hair sticking straight up on one side of his head. Bed head. Shorter hair. He had gotten his hair cut. When had he gotten a haircut?

"Morning," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like cheap whiskey. Maybe that is why he left her. No, left her father's house. Hadn't left her yet.

"I brought you a housewarming gift," Rachel said, holding out the blanket. The blanket she had gotten from Sara Wilkerson.

Miles' callused hands took it. He looked at her in puzzlement. He looked like Mr. Schulte's quizzical old Schnauzer.

"It may be summer now, but Texas does get cold. The colors remind me of fall. And you," Rachel pulled at the hem of her shirt. She wasn't going to say those last bits. Her hem was a bit unraveled.

Still picking at her hem, she said, "You can use it in the fall. Are you still gonna be here in the fall, or are you leaving too?"

She sounded broken and needy. She hated how broken and needy she sounded. She was broken and needy. She hated how broken and needy she was.

Miles interrupted her downward spiral, joking, "I don't have anywhere else to be."

It wasn't the answer she wanted. And though she had gotten a Masters in Understanding Miles, she didn't understand the meaning underneath the words, the intent behind them. Did that mean he was staying 'cause he cared and was too emotionally constipated to admit it, or did in really mean that he'd leave – like Charlie – as soon as he came up with something better to do? That moving out of her father's house was the first step on his path to leaving her again? Rachel knew she stood there a long time, thinking.

"So, um, do you want to come in?" Miles asked with a small half-shrug.

Half-shrug, quarter-shrug, eighth-shrug, sixteenth-shrug, thirty-secondth-shrug?

"Or should I walk you home?" He asked gently. Like she was an addlebrained puppy. She wasn't crazy. Okay, she was. But she wasn't as crazy as the world around her. With rogue nanites, former bosses blowing their brains out, and computer terminals frying and arcing before she could stop the world from being destroyed again.

Her annoyance broke through her rambling thoughts. Rachel nodded her head and stepped in, towards the door. Miles stepped back, making room. Like a dance. They had never gotten to go dancing before.

Rachel wondered what it would be like to dance with Miles. He must be good. He would bring the grace and precision of the battlefield and the raw passion and attentiveness of the bedroom together on the dance floor. He would be good.

Miles gestured at the queen bed. It was the only place to sit. Rachel darted in and grabbed the blanket from Miles. She snapped it open. She lay it on the bed, stroking down the brown-almost-black, white, burnt orange, butter golden, and tan yarn. Then she gingerly sat.

"Would you like to go dancing?" she asked.

Miles side-eyed her like she was crazy. She felt her shoulders hunch of their own accord.

Miles appeared beside her, talking softly, as if to a spooked horse, "No Rachel, I'll go dancing. I just don't know how."

No. No. This was **not** the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to show him she was strong, sane. Let him go if that is what he needed, even though that was the last thing she wanted. Not bind him to her with hoops of guilt. The second-to-last thing she wanted was to destroy someone else's life again.

Rachel brushed off his hand – he had placed it on her thigh, like Before – "No, that's okay. It was a stupid thought. I hope you like the blanket."

Rachel stood, turned to leave, but Miles caught her wrist. She stared at the hand on her wrist. The large hand on her fragile wrist. The only alternative was to look into his deep chocolately eyes. And she couldn't handle that right now. She'd shatter and break.

The hand slowly – like molasses on a winter's morning – released her wrist.

"Rachel, what's up? Why are you here?" Miles asked. Rachel looked up. Into his concerned eyes. She rubbed her hand over her wrist. Her newly raised scars. The warmth of his fingerprints.

The pieces of her self jangled to the floor all around her.

"Don't leave me. Please don't leave me," She spewed out, before stuffing her fist into her mouth. Shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that.

"Hey, Hey, Hey," Miles said, hands hovering centimeters above her shoulders. Shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that.

"Rachel!" He commanded. She stopped rocking and looked up. Not into his eyes, but at his jawline. He was sporting his perpetual 2-days growth, and through it, she could tell his skin didn't have its youthful vigor anymore. They weren't kids anymore.

"Rachel, I'm done with leaving the people I care about."

The bricks released from her shoulders and settled in her stomach. He wasn't going to leave her anymore. He cared about her, and was man enough to admit it.

Rachel sat back down on the bed. Mind whirring a mile a minute. He wasn't going to leave her anymore. He cared about her, and was man enough to admit it. But what did it mean?

"Rachel?" he asked gently.

"You're not going to leave me again?" she asked, tremulous hope dancing over the words.

"Nope."

The ground around her solidified. Pieces of mug-self fused back together. Aligning, annealing. Fewer gaps. Fewer pieces missing.

"Good," she said, one small smile tugging at her lips.


	2. The Dance

The rap of the doorknocker reverberated through the house.

Rachel looked up from her lab notebook. She jotted down a few more observations on the odd weather phenomena, and tied the notebook closed, stashing it under her mattress on her way out the door.

Rachel opened the door to see the shockingly incongruous sight of Miles. Miles, clean-shaven, shorter hair slicked back. It made him look younger. If it weren't for the grey hairs at his temples, bags and crow's feet around his soul-piercing brown eyes, she'd almost swear it was Sargent Matheson come back from the past to haunt her. Or love her.

Even his slightly wrinkled pale blue button-up sold the image. Rachel grabbed the doorpost and blinked to clear her eyes.

He was still there. His sheepish grin melted. Melted into the now familiar look of concern. She knew she wasn't imagining anymore. Sargent Matheson wouldn't have ever worn that look. Nor would General Matheson. Only Miles wore that look. Or sometimes, in public, Stu Redman.

"Sorry. Headache," she lied as she released the doorpost. He didn't buy it, but let it stand anyways. Love was letting your loved one keep their little vanities. Not that Miles loved her. He cared for her, felt guilty about what happened her, but that was it.

Miles ran his hand through his slicked back hair. A nervous tick.

"Do you want to come in?" Rachel asked, staring past his shoulder at the westering sun.

Miles licked his lip, "No, that's okay. Do you still wanna go dancing?"

Rachel blinked. Tried to parse the words. "Huh?"

"Would you like to go dancing? There is some sort of thing going on in the old firehouse tonight, if you want to."

Rachel blinked, trying to understand. Miles showing up at her house looking polished, asking her to go dancing? What sort of alternate universe did she fall into, and could she never leave?

"Is this real?" she asked, needing to clutch the doorpost to stay vertical, but not wanting Miles to think she was broken.

Miles' gut-punching look of concern returned.

"Let me go get dressed," she said before he could respond.

Rachel turned, leaving the door open, not caring she was letting the flies in.

Rachel processed as she walked to her room. There were three possibilities. One: she was hallucinating. Two: Miles was taking her dancing out of pity. Three: Miles was taking her dancing as a honest-to-goodness date. She wasn't sure what to do in those three cases, or how to determine which was the truth.

She reached her door far too soon. No plan.

She opened up her wardrobe. _Clothes, clothes everywhere, and not a stitch to wear. _Rachel giggled at herself.

Usually she wasn't one to care about little things like clothes. Even before the Blackout, her idea of a 'nice' shirt was one that was clean and didn't have some mysterious work- (or baby-) related stain or hole. But Miles was different. Miles made her feel special. Made her feel valued.

If it was a real date she didn't want him to compare her to all of the other women he'd been with, and find her lacking. If it was a pity-dance she didn't want to overdo it and have him regret it. If she was hallucinating, well then, she should just sit back and enjoy it. It was rare for her mind to spin something so happy.

After a lifetime of debate, indecision, and over-analysis, Rachel grabbed the blue shirt on top and shucked off her whisper-soft yet ratty shirt.

There was a cough behind her.

She turned around.

There was Miles, fist mere inches from her open bedroom door.

"I, uh, came to see what was taking so long," Miles said, eyes averted.

Didn't matter. He'd seen it all before. Hell, he'd taken care of her body when she was catatonic!

Rachel slipped on the shirt and finger-combed her hair. She debated brushing it, but it was clear Miles was just taking her out as part of his 'humor the crazy chick' scheme. Why bother.

Earlier, during what she once called an ugly fling, he'd love to watch her. Drinking her in in a way that should have been creepy, objectifying, but wasn't. It had been revolutionary. But now... Now, he couldn't look at the shattered remnant of the woman he cared for.

Rachel bit her lip. She was going to be strong.

"I'm decent," she said.

He turned around, and offered her his arm. Now she knew he was humoring her out of some misguided sense of responsibility. Miles just didn't do that. He never played the gallant. That was Bass, or rarely, Ben. Miles was too _honest_.

Miles blamed himself for what Monroe did to her. And now that she was broken, he was humoring her crazy schemes to heal her, and atone. Rachel tried to not let that get to her.

They walked. Arm in arm. Rachel thought. Miles did… whatever Miles did when silent. Rachel worked hard to block away the disappointment. Separated the bitter from the sweet. She was going dancing with Miles. Something she'd dreamt of for decades, long before she'd seen him dance on the battlefield, twin blades as dancing partners.

She wasn't going to ruin this for herself.

They walked under the village gates.

The sound of fiddle and accordion drew them to the old firehouse.

The garage was bathed in dancing torchlight.

A dozen or two couples line danced in the middle of the garage.

Miles missed a step, inhaling sharply.

_Poor Miles_. Rachel gripped his arm to comfort. Felt his lean muscles.

Miles forged ahead, taking them into the light. Taking them over to the sidewall where there was a watering station.

"Not what you were expecting?" Rachel asked.

Miles handed her a tin cup of water before thumping against the wall, "Nope."

"It's okay. We can go back," Rachel offered.

Miles scrutinized her, and she couldn't hide her disappointment from him.

"Nah. It's okay. Do you know, how?" Miles jerked his head in the direction of the dancers.

Rachel chuckled at him, "I grew up here. We line danced in gym class. My favorite 'sport'. Only one I wasn't picked last for."

Miles ran his hand through his slicked back hair, "Okay. You can teach me. But why are the couples facing the same way?"

Rachel shrugged, "It's line dancing?"

Miles tapped out the last of his water against his teeth, tin ringing like dull cymbals counterpoint to the warbling of Dennis the baker, before pushing off from the wall. Rachel set her cup down on the corner and led him back outside. Around the dancing couples. About half were courtin' couples around Charlie's age. Icy shocks of regret, anger, shame, and disappointment arced through her numb emptiness.

The couples were dancing a variation of the Whiskey Wiggle, a foot-stomping, boot-tapping, twirling dance of sorts. Too complicated.

Once outside, on the somewhat weather-beaten firehouse driveway, Rachel thought of the easiest couples line dance she could – the Colorado Cha Cha, a mostly stationary version of the Cowboy Cha Cha.

Rachel kicked an area free of rocks, leaves, and twigs before positioning herself on Miles' right. This was a good place. The light was good enough and the music was fine, if a bit too fast. Rachel could smell the crisp smell of Miles-sweat and a faint tinge some sort of sheepy oil he used on his swords to keep them rust-free.

Rachel tugged on her clean shirt – a mannerism she knew was reminiscent of Captain Jean Luc Picard and one she had broken herself of three decades ago – and tried to think of another delaying tactic. She couldn't.

She cleared her throat, "Okay, the Colorado Cha Cha. The basic step is this: step forward, cha cha cha, step back, cha cha cha."

Rachel demonstrated while explaining, "Now your turn."

Rachel watched carefully, his boots had seen better days – and far too many miles – "Good, but take smaller steps, we're gonna be dancing together, and you don't want to outstrip me now do you?"

"Okay, the next step is to turn 180-degrees and then step back, cha cha cha, 180-degree turn, step back, cha cha cha. Okay. Then turn 90-degree, step forward, cha cha cha, 180-degree turn, step forward, cha cha cha, and that is one full cycle. Got that?"

Miles rolled his brown eyes slightly, "Rache, compared to swordfightin', that is some simple footwork."

Rachel smiled, reminded of her earlier desire to learn a bit of sword-fighting from Miles, "Okay, then let's see."

Miles was right, he did have the footwork down.

"Okay, now here is the partnery part," Rachel said and grabbed Miles' right callused and war-torn hand with her small and confinement-smooth right, his left with her left, positioning them in the sweetheart pose.

Rachel was tucked underneath Miles' right arm; her left stretched across his body. They weren't actually that much closer in space, but the warmth of his hands and the places where arm brushed torso began to defocus her thoughts. She bit her lip and mentally pinched herself. Miles was dancing with her out of a sense of responsibility, remorse. They weren't _dancing_.

"Now for this part," Rachel started, matching movement to words, "Our hands stay like this, and for the 180-degree turny part too. But here, during the 90-degree turn, I duck under our right arms, like this, we hold our hands like this…" her right arm was wrapped around his back. She could feel his firm back muscle – latissimus dorsi if she remembered correctly. It rippled most distractingly under Miles' annoyingly thick linen shirt.

"And then now, on this turn, you duck under our left arms, and we begin the cycle again," Rachel guided Miles through the cycle slowly once more, and then they picked up the pace. The song changed once during her instruction.

Once Rachel was beyond certain he'd gotten it – it was nice being tucked so close to him, she almost felt safe… whole – she paused them.

"Got it?" She asked. At his nod, they began walking back into the light.

Rachel left him standing on the edge of the makeshift dance floor, as she walked up to the performer and caller's stage. At the end of the song, she motioned to Ken, who bent over and listened to her request with an amused half-smile. He nodded once, and Rachel threaded her way back to Miles.

After a brief pause for Dennis, the singer, to get a swig of water, Ken called out, "Colorado Cha Cha."

Partners resituated and Ken picked up his fiddle. After a few bars, Dennis's husky baritone sang out, and couples began dancing.

_I don't want to be the kind to hesitate,_

_Be too shy, wait too late._

Rachel felt Miles move beside her with grace, and power. His steps were not overlong, and he slid into the rhythm like silk. Turning and rocking, guiding and holding.

_I just want to dance with you._

Rachel felt the past and the future melt away. Concerns about **intentions** sublimated too.

_I want to dance with you, hold you in my arms once more,_

_That's what they invented dancin' for,_

She brushed up against his hip during one of the turns. Her hip sizzled in response.

_I just want to dance with you._

Dennis finished, and Ken and Jo set down their instruments. The spell was broken.

Rachel crashed back into the reality of dancing with an _indulgent_ Miles. She gasped slightly in pain, but managed to pass it off as breathlessness. Miles led them back to the watering station and handed her a water cup.

Miles and Rachel danced a few more times to the slower songs. Rachel worked hard at setting aside her unattainable and unrealistic hopes, but was unable to reach that state of harmony and concordance again. Miles seemed to be stiffer of body and even shorter of words than earlier.

After maybe the seventh slowish song, Miles caught Rachel suppressing a yawn and he called it a night.

Rachel bid Ken and the others a goodnight, Miles slouched against the firehouse garage door, kicking at the floor restlessly. There was something _off_ about the way he was standing. Rachel didn't know what.

Rachel and Miles left the firehouse in silence. Just like they entered it. But there was an edge to the silence that was new. Rachel didn't understand it.

Maybe it was just in her mind.

They walked under the village gate – it was still open despite the late hour due to the dance. People would be watching and judging the young (and not-so-young if unwed) couples as they returned. It was the small-town way. She wondered what Mrs. Burger would make of her 'date'.

No. She knew what Mrs. Burger would think. She'd think it was odd that Dr. Porter's daughter was dating 'lowlifes' again and wonder to all the neighbors about her sanity. Mrs. Burger would be wrong. On so many levels.

Rachel shook her head at herself. At Mrs. Burger. At the world. At herself.

Miles cocked his head.

Rachel shook her head dismissively.

Miles walked her to her porch, and Rachel, grasping at the tattered remnants of a dream of a normal date with Miles, clutched the collar of Miles' now slightly sweat dampened button-up and pulled him down for a kiss.

His neck was stiff, and his lips were firm, unyielding. Even more telling, his hands weren't on her, touching, stroking, holding.

Not the response she was hoping for, but not unexpected either. Rachel had two options: laugh it off as a joke or _something_, or make a run for it.

She was never much of a humorist – even in the best of times – so she released Miles' collar and lips and threw open the door, scampering up the stairs as quickly and as quietly as she could.

She reached her bedroom, and crept to her dormer window.

It appeared that Miles was outside, thumping his head against a tree.

He shouldn't do that. Why was he doing that? Was dancing with her that bad? Rachel slumped down to the floor, placing her head on her knobbly knees, salt water seeping into the denim.

It was wrong of her to kiss-attack him. Just because Miles had said he wasn't going to leave her again, didn't give her an excuse to latch onto him like an octopus in a tidal pool, taking advantage of a small safe crevasse.

* * *

Lyrics quoted from George Strait's "I Just Want To Dance With You"


	3. Breathing

Trigger warning: POV depression

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Rachel watched as the sunbeam moved slowly through her room. At some point – maybe around 4ish by the slight lightening of the sky – she had crawled from the floor to her bed. She didn't deserve a nice bed. But then again, people never got what they deserved.

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She should be entranced by the beauty of sunlight dancing through her lacy white curtains – remnants of a middle school summer spent interior decorating – but even such_ pure_ aesthetic enjoyment was beyond her. She didn't deserve pretty things.

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Somewhere, below her navel, in her distant body, was a rumble and a pang. Her stomach was hungry. She didn't deserve good food.

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* * *

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Rachel's ears heard a rap on her door. Her brain tried to tell her mouth to grant entrance, but the message never made it; it was engulfed in lassitude.

Dad opened the door. His face turned into a mask of disgruntlement.

Rachel tried to fight through her inertia to acknowledge him in some way, but before she could overcome that irresistible force, Dad appeared at the foot of her bed and ripped her covers off.

Some sort of instinctive reptilian torpor response took over, and her knees tucked themselves under her chin.

Somewhere, off to the left, Dad grunted.

"Look here Rachel, I'm **not** gonna do this whole spoon-feeding, bedside-watching thing again. You were fine yesterday. You are going to get up out of bed and help me with lunch," Dad decreed simply.

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Rachel was breathing. She was alive. Could he really expect her to get out of bed, get dressed, and do something? It was inconceivable.

No, Rachel thought as tears sprang to her eyes, it wasn't unreasonable for Dad to expect her to help out. He was right. Moping was selfish. She was selfish. It would be better if she just wasn't here anymore. Then Dad wouldn't have to take care of her. Then Miles wouldn't have to look after her. Then Miles wouldn't have to fend off her unwanted advances.

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But she'd promised that she wasn't going to 'pull such a damn fool stunt' again, and besides it was just too much work. Breathing was all she had energy for. And wishing that she could just sublimate and be _gone_ hadn't worked for seven years, why would she think it would work now?

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Dad had been saying something. It hadn't registered. Rachel rolled over to face him.

Dad's face snapped into focus. Well-wrinkled, jowly, exhausted, and _worried_.

"Dad? Do you still love me, despite of _everything_?" Rachel asked.

Dad looked crushed. She shouldn't have asked.

Dad sunk into the old chair beside her bed, defeated. She shouldn't have asked.

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"Sweetheart, of course I love you. I love you to the moon and back," He waited several beats, and then added, "All 470,000 miles."

Oh. Right. That was supposed to be her line.

Dad had always told her how much he loved her, and in middle school – during the 'I know everything' phase – she had looked up the distance from the moon and back. It had been their _thing_ ever since.

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She should be happy that Dad still loved her. Should be sad she didn't complete their love call-and-response. She breathed.

Dad talked. His voice rolled over her in incoherent – out of phase – waves. The sun moved. Sunbeams struck her bed. She breathed.

Dad asked her something.

Rachel nodded. She didn't know what he asked, but he seemed content with a nod. Dad left after checking her room for sharps. He needn't bother. She breathed.

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Dad returned with a bowl of something.

He left in on the chair.

He was steadfast on the not spoon-feeding her again thing. Didn't matter. The body was hungry. She wasn't.

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Dad returned. Made a fuss about the food.

Rachel sat up. Took the bowl. Fed herself. Got him to shut up.

It was grits. The butter on top had congealed. It was food. It was tasteless and the texture was pasty. Her stomach rebelled. She trudged onward; victory was the only acceptable outcome. Her stomach surrendered, silent. She finished the bowl.

Dad asked if she wanted more. She shook her head, listless. He took the bowl from her limp hands.

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Dad hadn't left the room yet. He stood at the doorway, bowl in hand, watching.

Rachel turned her head, made eye contact with his uneasy blue eyes. Dad set the bowl down and covered the distance in three long strides, enveloping her in a hug. Rachel sank into his broad chest, rocked by the back-thumps-of-love. He smelled like disinfectant and woodsmoke.

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Maybe she'd have enough energy to spare from breathing to get out of bed tomorrow.

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- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)


	4. Medicine

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Rachel no longer had sunbeams to track – it was after noon – but instead stared at the cracks in the plaster celling. Plaster celling cracks and her went way back; were dear old friends. Seeing shapes in the cracks was a good boredom-avoidance exercise. Not that she was bored now. Boredom required energy, momentum; she had none of those. She had breath.

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There was a rap at her bedroom door. Rachel forced out a grunt of recognition.

Dad opened the door. He was carrying a mortar and pestle.

Rachel sat up to please him.

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Dad plopped the mortar into her lap. The mortar was white marble – impermeable – with gray veins. The pestle didn't match – it was reddish marble. There was some sort of acrid herbal root-mash in the hollow of the mortar.

"Here, mash this," Dad directed.

It would take less effort to follow his orders than to protest, so Rachel picked up the pestle and began grinding.

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Dad began talking about the various uses of goldenseal root as she pounded. Rachel half listened. He moved on to the medicinal uses of yarrow leaves, and marigold flowers. Rachel hadn't known her father knew such things. He had been very anti-traditional medicine before the Blackout. Empirical country doctor all the way.

Rachel interrupted the lecture to ask about progress of mashing the roots, and Dad agreed that she had done a good job, taking the mortar and pestle from her un-protesting hands.

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Dad paused by the door and said, "I think you need something to live for, and I think medicine should be that thing."

Rachel stared at him, and nodded. She didn't know what it was she was agreeing to, but he seemed to want a response.

Dad left with a grin on his face. Good. She_ had _done something right.

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* * *

The lessons continued, and eventually Rachel dragged herself out of bed – for Dad. He was so invigorated by sharing his passion; she could almost feel it herself. Almost.

She learned herbal remedies, basic first aid, and even assisted Dad in difficult tasks, like restraining Jeremy Stone – the blacksmith/farrier – after he broke his wrist.

Each moment vertical was a struggle, and Rachel wanted nothing more than to give up again, but that would crush Dad – again – so she went through the motions.

Miles had stayed away for the past two weeks – since the dance – driven away by her selfish neediness, but she knew he was still in town. People would gossip about his increased drinking habit, and Jeremy talked about how Miles was helping out around the smithy and the stable during his check-ups.

Dad had given Jeremy a death-glare when he talked about Miles, but he was about as obtuse as a tree stump. Rachel _could_ have stopped asking questions she knew would lead to information about Miles, but she couldn't. It was like poking at a scab to see if it still bled. To see if she was still alive.

Rachel had been left in charge of rotating the drying herbs and medicinal plants while Dad visited the Martinez's. Little Antonio had been having some issues breathing, and Rachel recused herself of the house call.

Rachel wanted to go lie down, but then Dad would be disappointed in her, and if the plants weren't dried properly, then they wouldn't be effective, and people could die. Rachel was trying so hard not to disappoint anyone else, or to cause any more deaths.

There was a frantic pounding on the door. Rachel set the bundle of yarrow leaves down on the kitchen table as she headed for the door.

There was a second wave of frantic pounding. Must be an emergency.

Rachel hoped that her limited knowledge would be enough. Dad was gone.

She opened the door. It was Miles, and Jeremy the blacksmith.

Miles' face was a mask of pain. Rachel wretched her eyes from his grimace and clenched eyes to scan the rest of his body. He was hobbling, leaning onto Jeremy, his left foot held a good six inches above the ground. He was sweat-stained and his rolled up sleeves bore traces of horsehair.

"Dad's gone," She exclaimed.

"It's okay," Jeremy replied, leading Miles into the front room, forcing Rachel to step back, "You're a regular Florence Nightingale, you can help this sod."

Rachel followed the two walking – or hobbling – wounded into the exam room.

Rachel should have been focusing on the injury, but she couldn't. Miles had finally shown up, but he had been gone for so long. Had left her. Even after he said he wouldn't. She was angry.

It was novel... She hadn't been this angry for a long time – weeks, months maybe.

Jeremy set Miles down on the exam table and then left. Leaving Rachel alone with a wounded Miles and her newly awakened anger.

Rachel stomped over to Dad's cabinet, and threw open the drawer. It was… freeing… to affect the world around her. She grabbed the bottle of laudanum and poured out ½ mL into a dosing spoon and then into a shot glass. He probably needed a full mL, or more, due to his alcoholic liver, but overdosing would be worse for everyone than under-dosing.

Rachel handed him the bitter draught wordlessly.

Miles swigged the fluid, and then shuddered uncontrollably at the bitterness. Rachel didn't care. Life was bitter.

She bent down and began unlacing and easing his boot off of his left foot.

"A horse stepped on me when I was shoeing it," Miles explained unnecessarily.

Miles bit his lip once during the foot-extraction process – Rachel could tell because he stopped breathing for a moment, and his lips were slightly bloody, which was new – it must really hurt, Miles was one tough old bird.

Rachel cut off his sock – it was ratty and holey anyway – to get a closer look at his foot. There were no pieces of bone sticking out, and the whole area was flushed with blood pooling under the skin, a darker hoof-print was barely visible. She should probably feel around, but she didn't actually know what a broken foot would feel like.

It would be best to wait for Dad.

She would just have to RICE it until he got back.

"Lie back," she clipped out.

Miles gave her an indecipherable look.

"You need to elevate that foot before it grows to the size of a soccer ball. I'm not going to attack you with unwanted advances," Rachel explained.

Miles babbled something – something about the kiss – but she had already left the room to fetch a pillow. Or at least that was her story, and she was stickin' to it.

Miles was quiet – and laying back – when she returned, bearing pillows from the patient recovery room.

She gently placed the pillows under his raised foot. Elevation was key.

She grabbed a mess of clean (but not sterile) fabric to use as a compress, and walked outside to the water pump. It would be far colder coming directly from the well than from the roof-cistern.

Once the compress was damp but not over-wet, she returned and wrapped it around his at-the-very-least very bruised foot. She wasn't sure how tight to wrap it. Certainly possibly broken bones needed different care than sprained ankles, but the swelling did need to be kept down. She split the difference and wrapped it firmly but not tight.

Ice. Compression. Elevation. Only thing left was rest.

"Now, don't go anywhere," she commanded, "Dad needs to take a look at that foot, and you need to stay off of it."

Miles' face blanched. Was he going into shock? Couldn't be. Rachel grabbed the nearby trashcan and placed it beside the exam table, under his head, just in case.

Miles gave her a dirty look. She shrugged it off and tucked a woolen horse blanket around his torso. In as clinical of a manner as possible. She was _not_ feeling the warmth of his chest or the firmness of his shoulders.

"The laudanum should start kicking in soon. I'm gonna be in the other room, if you need something," Rachel said, her RICE check-list exhausted, her anger exhausted, and a desperate need to sort out her emotions foremost.

"No, Rachel, we need to talk," Miles said.

Rachel's eye were dragged to Mile's face, his words were so forcefully earnest. His brown eyes were glassy – whether from the pain or the opium, she couldn't tell, probably both.

"You're stoned. I have herbs to tend. We'll talk later," She bade, feeling more… in control… than she had in a long while.

"You promise?" Miles entreated – yes, definitely stoned.

"I promise," she said softer than she intended.

She left, and sagged onto the kitchen table, entirely done in.


	5. Conversation Part 1

Rachel awoke to the sensation of coarsely woven fabric under her cheek, firm, cold wood under her palm, breast, and hip, and the muffled sound of two men arguing. She froze.

If President Monroe and General Matheson were arguing outside her door, well, that _never_ bode well for her. They always argued before her interrogations, though they presented a unified front to her in her cell. They must not know how un-soundproof these old walls were.

Rachel tried to dig into her cell floor. Vanish.

But something was off…

The smells weren't right.

Her surroundings smelled of wood-smoke, stewed beef, and aromatic vegetables. Her cell smelled of mold, funk, and chamber-pot.

Where was she?

She carefully felt around, and grabbed hold of a carved wooden post – no, a table leg.

Her environment and situation crashed upon her.

She was home home, it the kitchen. She was no longer a prisoner of the Monroe Republic, and General Matheson hadn't fought with President Monroe for quite some time.

She had killed Strausser and escaped. Found and lost Danny. Found and driven Charlie away. Found and driven Miles away. Turned the power back on and destroyed the world, again. Gone crazy. Then found and burdened Dad.

She was a free woman – more or less, depending on how crazy she was – and Bass was far far away.

Then who was arguing?

Rachel gingerly rose to her hands and knees and crawled towards the crack of illumination coming in underneath the kitchen door.

She placed her ear against the door, focusing on de-convoluting the two baritone voices.

"… you! You're a menace! Somehow you managed to undo all of my hard work in _one night_ and I had to spend _weeks_ putting her back together again. I can't do it anymore. Your foot ain't broke. You need to leave," said Dad's rumbly voice.

There was a clatter of crutch on table.

Miles couldn't leave… he promised! Rachel was propelled up to a crouch.

Miles' gravelly voice said, "Look. I'm sorry I came. And I'm sorry I broke her – I don't know how – but I'm sorry. And you're right; she _**is **_doing a lot better without me. Less lost-waif and more… herself."

Rachel sat down on the floor by the door. _Was_ she doing better without him?

No.

She wasn't. She was empty.

Miles' anger returned, "But I couldn't just tell Jeremy: oh, no, a demon horse stepped on me, but you can't take me to the doctor, 'cause I'm a sick son of a bitch who has feelings for his crazy sister-in-law."

Miles still had feelings for her? Rachel was propelled back up.

"I'm going to blame that on the laudanum, and forget you ever said that, _if_ you get your sorry ass out of my house before Rachel wakes up. Why can't you leave well enough alone?!" The last bit came out in a strangled plea.

There was a grunt and a thump of crutch on hardwood floor.

Rachel found herself up and through the kitchen door before she fully realized it.

She blinked, processed, and then threw that processing out the window.

"I still need you," she breathed, looking into Miles' dark, almost black eyes. Were his pupils supposed to be that big?

Rachel turned to Dad, "I still need him."

Dad started arguing about what she really needed. Rachel cut him off, proclaiming, "I still need him. I'm not better. I'm… I'm… I'm like a soft-boiled egg. You peel off the shell, I look fully cooked, but inside I'm raw. Hurting."

Rachel paused gathering her thoughts for a moment, and thankfully all were silent. She continued, "Charlie's gone. Danny's gone. Ben's gone. I need you two."

Rachel sagged. Miles sat back down on the exam table, face blank. Dad looked… well, he looked like someone beat him over the head with a sack of bricks.

Rachel wanted to collapse, but couldn't leave things like this. Instead, she walked over and grabbed Dad's slack hands.

"Dad?" Rachel waited until he looked at her, his jowls saggy, and his pale eyes betraying confusion and pain, "I know I've been a huge burden…"

"No, sweetie, you haven't!" Dad interrupted.

"But I need more than your transplanted passion for healing people. And Miles, he can be a part of that," Rachel continued.

"That is if you still…" Rachel looked over her shoulder at Miles, unable to put her hopes, fears, and feelings into words. Especially in front of her Daddy.

Mile nodded firmly.

Rachel nodded back, smiled, and sank to the floor, expended.

Dad stooped, lifting her up by the armpits. Miles scrambled halfway off the table.

Rachel blinked up at Dad, getting her feet beneath her, explaining rationally, "I've felt and said enough for today. I'm going to bed. Play nice."

Rachel drifted out of the room leaving silence in her wake. She climbed up the stairs and collapsed onto her bed.

As she nodded off, her last thoughts were: _I'm still a broken coffee mug super-glued together with missing pieces, but I care about that again. **Now**, I'm doing better._

* * *

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)


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